Baby's First Day

The box sat atop the counter, wrapped in brown paper packaging, daring somebody to reveal its contents. Baby eyed it critically, wondering who had sent it and why. It had been addressed to her, Barbra, arriving on her first day on the job. She'd moved to the safety of the Rainbow City, as Adelaide was becoming known; the wall surrounding the Queen’s lands had been constructed from abandoned cars and was thus a patchwork of colours. This new job as Sheriff's Deputy was primarily because of her artistic talents, partially because she knew her way around various weapons, and partly because Barbra's father had once, very briefly, served as Sheriff to the Queen. And partly because Baby's best friend, Laura, daughter of the Queen, had gotten her one of the easiest jobs in town.

Except now there was this box. Her name was written in blocky capitalised letters, perhaps written by a shaky hand, or else written in transit. Perhaps on a horse, or in a cart. A car was unlikely, very few remained functioning and none of those were in any hands other than Baby's uncle Vik. Well, Vik and his group.

“Have there been any people coming through? Caravans or traders maybe?” her voice had adopted investigation mode already. Her boss, a tall gaunt man that had known her parents well nodded in satisfaction.

“Always. None from anywhere unusual, though, and none with any new members. With one exception, of course.” The Sheriff clapped a hand on her shoulder. “You're the newest person this town has seen in years, Baby.” He grinned through a curtain of beard. “Sorry, Barbra.”

She glowered at him, then went back to regarding the package. She placed her ear against the wrapping only to hear nothing.

“Not ticking, at least...” Barbra had seen more than enough old-world television to know that sometimes these things explode. She poked at it with a finger. Picked it up, turned it around, carefully, examining it in detail.

A simple cube, constructed from cardboard, wrapped in shabby brown paper. It was a single foot long on each side and surprisingly heavy. She sniffed at it, detecting nothing out of the ordinary, just a papery odour, crinkly and ancient. Old world paper. Old world cardboard, too, probably. She placed the box back on the counter top.

The Sheriff placed a hand on her shoulder as she backed away.

“What's the plan, then; should we call in the bomb squad?” she grinned at his joke. They were it as far as law enforcement went, before Barbra’s arrival he’d been at it all alone. People kept the chaos to a minimum here, there wasn't much call for police. His main job was to be seen wearing a hat and badge and gun and make sure nobody had any issues.

“I don’t know. Obviously, I want to open it, plus it's addressed to me.” She tapped the address label. It read BABY, SHERIFF OFFICE, RAINBOW TOWN. “Not from a local, nobody would bother. The Postie didn't have any idea who sent it, just that it arrived with all the mail from up north. Which means it could be from home, or it could be from anywhere else. I don’t recognise the handwriting, so it's nobody that I would expect something from and nobody knows I'm here except my mother, aunt Val and uncle Vik from home anyway.”

“Nobody here knew you were coming either. Just me and the Princess. I don't think the Queen even knew, but you can never be too sure with her...” the Sheriff spoke to forestall more speculation from Barbra. “It’s your first day on the job and we've already got a mystery to solve. I'm not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but at least we aren’t bored!”

“You’ve got a point,” Barbra allowed. She then removed her belt knife with a flourish, slicing the wrapping deftly. The box was about as boring as the paper, just as brown and just as old. Carefully lifting the lid, she grimaced at the contents.

Snapping teeth attempted to reach her juicy fingers, but her reflexes were far sharper than those of a stationary severed head. It was barely beginning to show the first signs of decay; signs that would slow now. There were still Dead around from the beginning, slowly rotting as they shuffled along searching for their next meal. That was nearly seventeen years ago, now. It seemed that the more the Dead ate the slower they decayed, but there was no hard evidence to support that idea.

“Jesus, Baby, are you alright?” The Sheriff leaped to her side, jerking her away from the Dead head in the box, still snapping away in a frenzy now that fresh flesh was near.

“I’m fine. Who would think up this sort of prank?” Barbra’s tone was steady. This was no prank; somebody was actively trying to kill her.

“Barbra, this is no prank, someone is actively trying to kill you!” The Sheriff told her. At least he was good at his job. He removed his own knife. “Out of the way, I’ll deal with it.”

She frowned at him, stopping him in his tracks. Holding up a hand to halt his progress, she waved him back a couple of paces impatiently.

“We need to examine this properly. Like it or not, boss, your office is now a crime scene.” The pleasure oozed out of her tone. He sighed. “Now, either make some coffee or see if you can find some witnesses or other leads while I take a look at Alfred here.”

“Alfred?” His new hire giving him orders was nothing new; he was familiar with Barbra’s ways by now, he’d known her parents well, even helping them both escape from Adelaide only to eventually return and be granted the position her father had held, however briefly. He’d known the young woman nearly her entire life.

“You can name the next one,” Baby promised. “I’ll make sure Alfred can’t hurt anyone, don’t worry. I just need him… alive isn’t the right word here, but it’ll do. At least while I conduct the initial investigation.”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next one. There wasn’t one before you got here, after all…” He muttered, wandering away to put the kettle on the stovetop and find Postie. It was possible that he'd remember something of value, though his memory was not what it had been.

Barbra pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves before grasping a handful of hair and pulling the head out of the box. She then placed it gently on the countertop next to the box, examining the container further. A small slip of paper lay folded in one corner, a small smudge of dried blood marring the writing somewhat.

Seek the One who Sacrificed Himself

This was a message, not a murder attempt. Not strictly a murder attempt, at any rate. Turning to Alfred, she noted that he was quite fresh. She took out her sketch pad and pencils and began drawing his face while it still held some semblance of his rapidly diminishing humanity. This head was fresh enough that it must have been severed immediately prior to sending. Perhaps two days’ worth of decay, three at the outside.

Alfred’s teeth snapped as she moved him over to his side. The cut was not even close to clean. Had they used a hacksaw? Baby’s eyes drifted to her katana. Her father’s katana, once. One neat slice from that would do the trick; this would have taken at least a minute of hard effort. Poor Alfred.

Then she noticed the reason for the savage hacking; it covered up a bite mark. Alfred had been bitten, presumably had died, then been brutally decapitated and placed in a box addressed to Baby. Having learned all she could from his head, she stabbed Alfred neatly through the temple, silencing his snapping jaws forever.

She busied herself with sketches of Alfred’s injuries while The Sheriff returned, made some coffee and stated that he’d raised Postie on the radio; he’d return for his interview after making the final few deliveries on his list. Sheriff had asked if there were any other boxes like Baby’s surprise; Postie had checked and replied in the negative. Barbra sighed in relief at that; at least there was only her box to worry about.

She passed Sheriff the note, asking what he thought it meant.

“The One that Sacrificed Himself, huh?” He sipped his coffee. “Only ‘One’ I can think of is that whacky cult out west.” Barbra shuddered involuntarily. She’d been brought up on stories from her father’s journal and knew The Cult of One well enough.

A polite knock on the office door announced Postie’s arrival. The older gentleman still had a straight back, with thinning silver hair and a permanent grin on his weathered face. He’d been a postal worker all his life and didn’t see any reason to stop just because the world had ended; people still needed to deliver letters and packages to one another.

“I recognise that fellow,” his voice sounded impeccably proper. “He was the one that handed me the box for you, Barbra.” Postie, though he’d known her from a very young age, was always careful to use her actual name. She’d always liked that about him. He was examining a sketch she’d drawn while waiting for Sheriff earlier, her impression of what Alfred would have looked like had he not been a hungry, severed, decaying head in a box.

“He was the one in the box…” Sheriff gestured to the head, still pinned to the countertop. Postie knelt down, tilting his head to the side to get a better view.

“Good Lord!” Postie actually sounded mildly surprised. “How extraordinary! You don’t often see twins anymore, do you? But why would he chop his own brother’s head off and sent it to you?”

Barbra shrugged.

“I wish I could be of more help, truly. I know I definitely saw this fellow, but damn my eyes if I can recall where it was. Up North, that much I know. I’m heading out that way again in a few days, if you’d care to come along. You can investigate your case and I get the pleasure of your company. What do you say?” Postie’s smile was genuine. She grinned back at him. “It’ll be a valuable experience for you, as well.”

“You just want extra guards, don’t you?” Barbra poked the old man with a finger. He laughed easily.

“Got it in one my girl.” Postie smoothed his short white beard with his hand. His face sobered. “There will be Dead, no doubt about that, and likely bandits as well. Possibly even Ghouls. It’s a long trip and I’m going to need you for the whole of it, even if we find your quarry at the very first stop.”

“I know what a caravan guard contract is like,” Baby told him, slightly irritated at his patronising demeanour. “I’ll stick it out as far as I’m contracted, then if I have to back-track when we get where we’re going… fine.”

“Just be sure to check in with me via radio at least once every 48 hours,” Sheriff knew better than to try to talk Barbra out of anything. “You still work for me, remember?”

To be continued…